Riders of the Purple Sage HTML version
5. The Masked Rider
Venters looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the canyon where the others
had disappeared. He calculated on the time needed for running horses to return
to the open, if their riders heard shots. He waited breathlessly. But the estimated
time dragged by and no riders appeared. Venters began presently to believe that
the rifle reports had not penetrated into the recesses of the canyon, and felt safe
for the immediate present.
He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been dragged by his horse. The
man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyes protruding--a sight that sickened
Venters. The first man at whom he had ever aimed a weapon he had shot
through the heart. With the clammy sweat oozing from every pore Venters
dragged the rustler in among some boulders and covered him with slabs of rock.
Then he smoothed out the crushed trail in grass and sage. The rustler's horse
had stopped a quarter of a mile off and was grazing.
When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not even the cold nausea
that gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. For he had shot Oldring's
infamous lieutenant, whose face had never been seen. Venters experienced a
grim pride in the feat. What would Tull say to this achievement of the outcast who
rode too often to Deception Pass?
Venters's curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared him for the shock
he received when he stood over a slight, dark figure. The rustler wore the black
mask that had given him his name, but he had no weapons. Venters glanced at
the drooping horse, there were no gun-sheaths on the saddle.
"A rustler who didn't pack guns!" muttered Venters. "He wears no belt. He
couldn't pack guns in that rig....Strange!"
A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body told Venters the
rider still lived.
"He's alive!...I've got to stand here and watch him die. And I shot an unarmed
Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider's wide sombrero and the black cloth mask.
This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined to curl, and a white, youthful
face. Along the lower line of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation, where the
brown of tanned skin met the white that had been hidden from the sun.
"Oh, he's only a boy!...What! Can he be Oldring's Masked Rider?"
The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his lips moved; a
small brown hand clenched in his blouse.
Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had entered the
rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. With hands that shook, Venters
untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wet blouse.
First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin, from which
welled a slender red stream. Then the graceful, beautiful swell of a woman's
"A woman!" he cried. "A girl!...I've killed a girl!"